This morning, my husband rolled over and on his nightstand sat a bag with a sweet little card and his favorite chocolates. We came downstairs to find the children reading the valentine's I'd left them out on the table, eating the chocolates and dousing themselves in the little pocket-tubes of Axe bodyspray I gave them.

Note to self: Axe? Not a great idea unsupervised.

There wasn't anything for me, and I didn't really care. The smiling faces of my gorgeous little family were all I was hoping for, and I was happy.

We were out of coffee, and I said I'd go get another bag. 10 minutes after waiting for him to say, "No, honey, it's Valentine's Day. Let me," I headed out the door. I decided to splurge on a big, fancy latte, the kind I refuse to waste the money on normally, and I was happy.

The Donor got ready for work and with a kiss to everyone's cheek was out the door. A few hours later, having not heard from him, I decided to email him a picture of myself in, um, a Valentinesy sort of position on the bedroom floor with a caption that simply read, "Hurry home, baby." No, I will not show you the picture. I was nervous, that sort of thing being really out of character for me, but I was happy.

A little while later, he replied. I opened his email which read, and I quote:

"Holy Shit! Did you clean the bedroom?"

I was not happy anymore.

And so my new Valentine and I wish you all a very happy Valentine's Day weekend.